


sing, o muse

by tomorrowisforeverallours



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rare Pairings, Soft and tender, The Iliad References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 08:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20945078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowisforeverallours/pseuds/tomorrowisforeverallours
Summary: There's not a single book in this house that isn't in German. Speirs finds a solution.





	sing, o muse

**Author's Note:**

> so i've been thinking about speirsweb for a while, and the new creation of the hborarepairs blog on tumblr gave me the motivation i needed to start exploring them. this is a one-off, as i've a lot of other fics to update, but you might see them again soon.

Speirs is bored out of his goddamn mind.

Easy is stationed somewhere in the midst of Bavaria, where picturesque hillsides allow for a perfect view of the ruined German towns they've occupied. The men are safe, warm, and content. Tomorrow's orders are set, and he doesn't even have any reports to write.

The abandoned house they’ve commandeered is more like a mansion, outfitted with multiple parlors and a windowed attic that had somehow escaped use as a sniper nest (and subsequent destruction). Now is when Speirs would typically go looting, and he has no qualms about robbing from someone who obviously supports Hitler enough to maintain their wealth. The only problem is that the rest of Easy Company is also on a looting spree, eager to snag themselves souvenirs, and Speirs has no interest in pilfering silver from his men's pockets.

His next choice would be to read, but his copy of  _ A Tree Grows in Brooklyn _ disappeared long ago. And as he soon discovers, the owners of this house are so proud of their German heritage that he can't find a single fucking book that isn't in German.

"Jesus Christ," he huffs, tossing the German Bible he'd found back into its drawer. "At this point I may as well go stare at the sky and tell myself a goddamn bedtime story."

"Do whatever you want, sir, just do it quietly, would'ja?" mumbles Luz, half-asleep in an armchair.

"Shut up and go to sleep, trooper."

Speirs finds himself doing just that, climbing the rickety ladder up to the attic, guided by nothing but instinct and the feel of splintering wood in his hands. He gets halfway into the room and pauses, surprised to see another man's silhouette against the window.

"Who is that?"

The soldier's head snaps up; Speirs vaguely recognizes the outline of his hair and the sharp line of a jaw. "Captain Speirs?"

"The one and only." He pulls himself the rest of the way into the attic, wrinkling his nose at the dust that irritates it. "Webster, right?"

"Ah- yes, sir," he says, mouth open as though he wasn’t expecting to be recognized. It is a fair assumption -- after all, Speirs hadn’t taken command of Easy until long after he’d gone to hospital, and they hadn’t interacted much since he’d rejoined the company. He knows Webster, though, and not only because he makes it a point to remember every man under his command. “Did you need something?”

"Nothing but some peace and quiet," says Speirs, shuffling towards the window. Pale moonlight kisses the pages of the book he holds. 

"Oh. I can-"

"Stay," he interrupts. A beat of silence passes, in which Webster merely blinks and Speirs curses himself. "I have no intention of running you out of your hiding place, Private," he says gruffly. "I'll go if you'd like me to. Finders keepers, after all. Cigarette?"

He tells himself it isn’t a test, but is still pleased when the man accepts, leaning over to light first Speirs’ smoke and then his own. Webster chuckles, the sound little more than an exhale in the starry German night. "It seems like you might need a hiding place too, Captain," he quips, too-blue eyes sparkling. "There's enough space for the both of us. No light, though." 

"That's fine." He's right, but most of what Speirs is trying to hide from lies within his own heart. "Are you writing or did you manage to pick up a book somewhere?" 

"You're aware that I write, sir?" 

“Of course I am; it’s hard to miss,” says Speirs pointedly. Webster looks sheepish. “I’m not here to pry into your innermost secrets, so you can ignore that if you’d like. Just curious.” 

It’s strange, the desire to make conversation with someone; Speirs doesn’t feel it very often, and only very rarely since he joined the army. No one needs to know who he is except for him. But Webster poses an exception to the rule, if only because their mutual background in literature gives him an excuse to go beyond Army protocol. 

Webster watches him for a moment, expression puzzled, as though trying to sort out his intentions. He returns the eye contact without a hint of reservation, trained never to back down in the face of scrutiny, almost daring the man to try and see through him. 

Webster breaks the lock first. He glances down, fingers caressing a page covered in writing that, upon second look, is press-printed rather than handwritten. “No, I’m not writing. Just reading.” 

“You found something that was actually in English?” asks Speirs, surprised. 

“Ah, no. I’m practicing my German. I get plenty of practice speaking and reading signs, but my prose skills are lacking,” he says with an embarrassed smile. 

“Ah. What is it?” 

“The Iliad, actually. Oddly enough, the Nazis have quite an appreciation of ancient Grecian art...” 

The wave of homesickness takes Speirs by surprise, but he swallows it down. To be reminded of such an ordinary interest, of the home and life he’d left behind in Boston, feels to be proof that the war really is ending. 

Webster is still rambling about Homer’s depiction of war, completely oblivious as to Speirs’ momentary distraction. “Read it,” he says.

The trooper pauses, mouth still open. “Sorry, sir?” 

“I haven’t found a single damn book in English in this entire house. Read it aloud, would you?” It’s a strange request, he realizes, and amends it. “This isn’t an order. Just a question from one classics student to another.” 

Again, Webster hesitates. “You’d be better off asking Liebgott if you wanted a perfect translation,” he says. 

“I don’t need a perfect translation; I could probably recite it from memory. I’d just like to hear it.” 

Speirs exhales a lungful of smoke and watches Webster, who turns towards the open window and carefully snubs out his own cigarette, smiling fondly. The expression doesn’t wane when he turns back, and Speirs wonders if he knows what he’s doing. “I suppose I could do that, then. You’ll have to bear with me, sir; I’m not sure how well the lyricism of Homer will translate to German.” 

“You’ll do fine.” 

Webster rolls his eyes, thumb smoothing a crease in the first page like a lover’s caress. “ _ Singe den Zorn, o Göttin, des Peleiaden Achilleus, ihn, der entbrannt den Achaiern unnennbaren Jammer erregte…”  _

Speirs lets his head rest against the window frame, gaze flickering between Webster’s careful tracing of the lines and the purse of his lips around the German syllables. Somehow, he feels more in danger now than in any combat situation, but he never runs.

If there is a challenge to be met, Speirs always does so head-on, which makes it all the easier to lean in and press his lips to Webster’s. 


End file.
